


The Way you Bleed

by PeppermintMoose



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FAHC, GTA AU, Jeremy-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, i'm tagging the cat as a character you can't stop me, rimmy tim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-23 21:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeppermintMoose/pseuds/PeppermintMoose
Summary: Jeremy Dooley has made a mistake.All it took was one lying client and suddenly his time galavanting around Los Santos as Rimmy Tim had come to an abrupt end.  Now, he's got a billionaire out for his blood and every gang member in the city breathing down the back of his neck.Who would've thought that the Fake AH crew would end up being the only thing standing between him and certain death?





	1. Chapter 1

Jeremy pulled his hoodie tighter around his shoulders. 

The Los Santos air tore at his throat and burned in his chest. His mask managed to ease the sting of the wind against his face, but he couldn’t stave off the bone-deep chill that was threatening to consume him. The exterior of the skyscraper he leant against offered no refuge. Snowflakes streaked down, piling up over his feet and causing any passer-by to keep their head ducked low. He was glad. It made it less likely that someone would notice his fluorescent mask. 

It really wouldn’t take much for someone to recognise him. Honestly, he’d be surprised if anyone *didn’t* know who Rimmy Tim was after all the media attention his exploits were drawing. Each of his crimes had been built from the ground up to please his audience; the people of Los Santos. And he’d succeeded. They watched with horrified awe, externally condemning his actions but secretly desperate for his next act. His flashy, death-toll-free feats provided a comforting alternative to the turf war currently happening between the FAHC and the Beacon Gang. 

Even without the public attention, it wasn’t like he’d made his costume for subtlety. His favourite description he’d heard of the orange-and-purple monstrosity was “an all-out tactical assault against colour”. He was glad that at least one person recognised his efforts. 

Today’s job was a departure from his usual activities. His client was paying him to steal some business documents. Usually, he would have passed, but it was the identity of the target that caught his attention. The victim was an employee of Dirk Cohen, the richest man in Los Santos who was more commonly known as the Corpirate. Stealing from the Corpirate, right outside of his office building? Even though he was just taking a few files, this should get him some major Robin-Hood style praise from the media 

He spotted his target walking down the sidewalk towards him. The man clutched his briefcase too tightly to be an ordinary pedestrian, and he matched the description his client had given him perfectly. Jeremy shifted his weight forwards as the man drew close. 

“Yoink!” he yelled, hand darting out to snatch the briefcase. He flicked his head backwards, knocking his hood off and exposing his mask. 

Immediately, four other pedestrians had guns trained on his head. He stopped. Fuck. This wasn’t in the plan. Why the fuck would a case full of paperwork have this level of protection? 

He raised his hands, briefcase still dangling from one thumb. “Ladies, Gentlemen. I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.” 

“Who are you?” One of the men hissed. 

“Oh, come on! Have you been living under a rock?” His grip tightened around the briefcase handle, and he swung it into the man’s head, causing him to stumble backwards and knock another of the guards to the ground. “It’s Rimmy Tim, ya sluts!” Slamming his head backwards, a third guard’s nose shattered against the back of his skull. She crumpled to the ground. The first man staggered in front of him, and he couldn’t help but grin. “Hap hap!” he yelled, leapfrogging the man with the sort of grace that only came with years of gymnastics practice. 

He’d nearly made it into an alleyway when the gun went off. Fuck. He’d taken out three. There was still one person standing. The bullet struck his left bicep, and the breath was torn from his lungs. He stumbled around the corner and forced himself to keep running. He couldn’t feel anything besides a dull throb, but he knew that would only last until the adrenaline wore off. 

This was the one thing he had over those smarmy business-criminals. He knew the back streets of Los Santos. They were too worried about tarnishing their reputation to ever set foot in this part of his world. 

Ducking and weaving, he eventually reached the back of an old pub that he was certain they wouldn’t be seen dead near, and he sunk to his knees. The bullet wound burned, and it took all his focus to not yell out in pain. Sucking air in through his clenched teeth, he pulled out his knife and cut a strip of fabric from his hoodie, wrapping it tightly around the wound. 

He looked at the briefcase, which was lying on the ground beside him. Whatever was in there, someone wanted it. Badly. Whatever his client had said about just needing a few minor documents had been a lie. Curiosity tugged at him, but he managed to resist. He couldn’t open the briefcase until he was somewhere safe and wasn’t slowly bleeding to death. 

Despite being on edge waiting for an ambush, his trudge home was uneventful. A rusty fire escape meandered up the side of the grey building, stopping one floor above the ground. He jumped onto the lid of a dumpster, and leapt to get a grip on the first step. Despite the bolt of pain as the weight pulled at his gash, he pulled himself up with ease. 

Two stories up, he’d reached the window to his apartment, and slid in his key. He’d had the lock installed to make sure he was the only one who’d be taking advantage of this back route. It wasn’t exactly aligned with his residential agreement, but as long as the rent was paid on time the landlord let the tenants to do as they wished. 

Sliding in through the window, he was greeted by Scooter winding himself around his legs. 

“Agh- let me- are you trying to trip me?” he exclaimed, wobbling on one leg as he tried to find clear ground for the other. Scooter mewed happily. “Yeah, yeah. Good to see you too.” 

His studio flat was neat as always. Bed made, books shelved, clothes put away. He didn’t exactly have all that much room. Leaving it cluttered would only make it seem cramped. 

Dumping his briefcase on his desk, he made his way to the bathroom and pulled his first aid kit out of the medicine cabinet. He tugged off his shirt and used a damp cloth to wipe away as much of the blood from his skin as he could. 

Now that he could see the wound clearly, he sighed with relief. It wasn’t major. 

After cleaning out and bandaging the wound, he returned to his desk and pulled a screwdriver out of the drawer. Jamming it beneath the lid of the briefcase, he pushed downwards with all of his strength. After a few groans, the lock snapped open. He stumbled slightly before regaining his balance. 

He took a deep breath and opened the case. 

Inside were ordinary expenses sheets. 

“Are you fucking kidding me.” He shuffled through the sheets, finding spreadsheet after spreadsheet tracking innocuous business costs. “I got shot for this?!” 

As he lifted the last sheet, exasperated, his eye caught on a slight bump in the lining of the briefcase. He pulled out his knife and cut through the fabric, and pulled out a small usb. 

“Ah-ha!” 

He plugged it into his computer, and began to shuffle through the files. 

“...What the fuck?” 

File after file documented various crimes and exploits carried out by the Beacon gang. As he read, it was clear this was information that could never have been known by the police. It was all from insiders. And each file lead back to one man being behind it all. 

The Corpirate was the leader of the Beacon gang. 

He collapsed back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair. 

He had in his possession enough evidence to get the most powerful man in the city thrown in jail for several lifetimes. 

The most powerful man in the city *knew* that he possessed this evidence. 

The most powerful man in the city was going to be fucking pissed. 

He let out a long groan. 

Well, he thought, at least the Corpirate didn’t know that Jeremy Dooley had the briefcase. He knew that Rimmy Tim had taken it, and the connection between the two was still a secret.

For now.

He frowned. How long would it take a desperate billionaire to figure it out? 

He rose to his feet and dragged a suitcase out from underneath his bed, and began to haphazardly throw his possessions into it. Only the essentials. He had to get away. He didn’t know where, but he didn’t want to tempt fate by remaining in Los Santos a moment longer than he had to. 

Shoving a final pair of pants in, he zipped up the suitcase. Scooter head-butted his leg, and he sighed, scratching the cat behind his ears. “You’re gonna be the only one who misses me, pal,” he said, grabbing the bag of kibble from underneath the kitchen sink and dumping the rest of it into Scooter’s bowl. “You’ll get over it once you figure out I’m not the only one that can feed you.”

He grabbed his burner phone and brought up the conversation with his client. “Deal’s off,” he typed. After a moment's consideration, he added, “Asshole,” and hit send. 

He slammed the phone down on the ground, and stomped on it until he was confident that it was thoroughly dead. 

With an odd pang of sadness as he took one last glance at his apartment, he grabbed his suitcase and headed out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

It was late evening by the time Jeremy left his apartment. Streetlamps dotted the road with pools of light, while the hazy remains of the sunset glinted at him from between skyscrapers. On either side, windows were boarded up, barred, or broken. The only signs of life were muffled voices drifting down from apartments and the occasional car. As each one passed, he couldn’t help but brace himself for someone to lean out the window and shoot him. 

Even though it wasn’t fully dark, people tended to avoid this part of the city. While nowhere in Los Santos was particularly safe, this area was infested with the sorts of people who you’d rather avoid. It was a concentration of the worst the city had to offer. Jeremy’s trick to staying alive? He made sure he was always the most dangerous one there. 

Gravel crunched as one of the cars began to slow down behind him, and his nails dug into the palm of his hand. He considered dumping his suitcase and bolting, but he didn’t really fancy wearing the same pair underwear for the next month. For now, he was stuck dragging it along behind him at an agonisingly slow pace. 

As the car reached his side, it matched his speed. One tinted back window rolled down. Whelp, Jeremy thought. This can only go well. 

“Jeremy Dooley?” The man’s accent was overwhelmingly British. Sunglasses were perched on his large nose. 

Great. Not only was Jeremy going to be killed, he was going to be killed by the sort of asshole who wore sunglasses at night. 

“Who’s asking?” he said, refusing to slow down. 

“Hop in and we can have a chat.” 

“Uh, no thanks. Stranger danger and all that?” Jeremy could feel his heart pounding. He glanced up just in time to see the front a passenger door open and a curly-haired man step out in front of him. Curls pushed back the sleeves of his leather jacket and cracked his knuckles. Jeremy stopped walking. “Fuck.” 

“Changed your mind?” the British man grinned. 

Jeremy's eyes darted backwards. He'd never been a runner, but he figured he could get a decent distance away before the car managed to turn around. Whether he could out-speed Curls was a different matter. 

A gun cocked beside him. “I’m gonna be miffed if I have to waste a bullet on you.” 

Jeremy took a long, slow breath before turning back to the British man. The car door opened. Behind the driver's seat there were two rows of bench seats, one backwards so that the passengers would be facing each other. The Brit moved to the forward bench. Jeremy picked up his suitcase. 

“Oh, leave it. Michael’ll put it in the boot for you.” 

Jeremy was suddenly aware that Curls was behind him, boxing him in. “What? I’m not a fucking chauffeur.” 

“What else are we supposed to do with it? It’s not gonna fit in here.” 

“Leave it?” Michael said, giving Jeremy a light shove forward. He stumbled into the side of the car, dropping the suitcase behind him. 

“That would be rude!” the Brit said, crinkling his nose. 

“Oh, _my apologies_.” Jeremy could almost hear Michael’s eyes roll. “I would hate for the person we’re kidnapping to think we’re rude.” 

The Brit made a squawk of protest. “We’re not kidnapping him! We’re having a lovely little chat.”

“Fucking hell, you somehow made that sound worse than just kidnapping him.” 

Jeremy sat down on a seat across from the Brit, so that he was facing the back of the car, and buckled up his lap belt. Not that it would do much. He just found himself clinging to whatever semblance of normalcy he could find. Michael leant over him and shoved the suitcase into the front passenger seat before sitting down next to the Brit. The car smoothly pulled away from the curb. 

“So, Jeremy,” the Brit said, dragging his attention away from Michael. “Or do you prefer Rimmy Tim?”

“I’m not Rimmy Tim!” Jeremy blurted out. 

“Sure,” Michael said. “I’m not Michael, and this is not Gavin.” The Brit gave a small wave.

Something pinged with familiarity in Jeremy’s mind. “Wait. You’re... you’re with the Fakes, aren’t you?” 

Michael grinned. “Yep!” 

Jeremy sunk back into his seat. The already-miniscule chance of him leaving this car alive was rapidly deteriorating. He’d been so busy panicking about Beacon and the Corpirate, he hadn’t even entertained the notion that the FAHC would be interested. 

He chewed at his lip. “How did you find me? It’s only been a few hours.” 

“You can thank the best hacker in Los Santos!” Gavin beamed. 

“What does Lawrence have to do with this?” Michael asked. 

“Oi!” Gavin swatted at Michael, and Michael twisted away from him and giggled. After shooting him one last glare, Gavin turned back to Jeremy. “All I had to do was grab the feed from a few security cameras in the area, and you lead us right back to yours!” 

Jeremy groaned. 

“So,” Michael said. “You give us what you took from Beacon, and we let you out. Easy as.” 

Jeremy frowned. “But what about Beacon?” 

Michael raised an eyebrow. “What _about_ Beacon?”

“They’re gonna kill me!” Jeremy said, his voice cracking slightly. 

Michael barked out a laugh. “Dude. We’re gonna be rubbing it in their face that we took their thing. As soon as they realise you don’t have it, they won’t give a fuck.” 

“My bet’s on it being jewelery,” Gavin said. 

Michael rolled his eyes. “$100 bucks on it being cash.” 

“You’re on!” 

“You don’t know what I took,” Jeremy’s eyes widened at the realisation. 

“Who gives a fuck?” Michael asked. “If Beacon wants it bad enough to put a bounty on you, then we don’t want them to get it. Simple as that.” 

“The Corpirate’s the leader of Beacon.”

Michael blinked. “Uh, you lost me.” 

“The thing I stole- its a USB containing proof that Dirk Cohen, the Corpirate, is the leader of Beacon.” 

The car descended into silence. 

“What the fuck?” Jeremy heard the driver say from behind him. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

Jeremy hadn’t realised how much this secret had been weighing on him. Now, the words were tumbling out, and he knew he’d be unable to stop himself even if he wanted to. “He has total control over them because they rely on his money. Everything they’ve done was ultimately decided by him. Every heist. Every murder. If this got out to the public… they’re gonna kill me to make sure it doesn’t.” 

Gavin’s brows were furrowed as he stared into space, and Michaels face twisted with anger. “I knew those fucks had too much money!” he yelled. 

“This is a good thing, innit? Not for him, I mean.” He tilted his head towards Jeremy. “For us. All we have to do is give this to the press and the whole gang collapses.”

Michael considered for a moment before leaning towards Jeremy. “Give us the USB, and we’ll let you go home.”

“What? So I can sit around and wait for Beacon to shoot me?” 

Michael shrugged. “Not our problem.” 

Jeremy clenched his teeth. “Then I’m not telling you where the USB is.” 

Michael frowned, cocking his head to one side. “Excuse me?” 

“I’ve hidden it,” Jeremy said, “so I could use its location as a bargaining chip if Beacon found me. Until I’m safe, I’m not telling you where it is.” 

“So you want us to protect you,” Michael said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Jeremy nodded, pursing his lips. 

Michael fell back, letting out a long groan and pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “Why does this have to be so fucking complicated.” 

“We could always torture it out of him,” Gavin suggested. Jeremy felt his chest tighten. 

“What happened to this being a ‘lovely little chat’?” Michael said. 

“We’re not torturing him,” the driver said. 

“Aww, Jack! Why not?”

“He’s a civilian. We don’t torture civilians,” Jack said. 

Gavins expression tightened. “Fine. But you’re explaining why we’re all on babysitting duty to Geoff.” 

“Well, Jeremy, it looks like we’re going to be spending some time together. Michael?” Michael leant forward and grabbed Jeremy’s arms, zip-tying his wrists together in front of him. Jeremy grumbled in complaint. 

“I hope you realise that I hate everything about this,” Michael muttered, eyes narrow. 

“Really? Because I was enjoying it. I thought we were having a lovely time.” he maintained eye contact with Michael as he over-dramatically attempted to snap the zip tie. 

“Play nice, boys,” Jack said. 

“Sorry, mum,” Gavin replied.


End file.
